


Proximity Burns

by evanlinge



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s05e13 The Song Remains the Same, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 20:32:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evanlinge/pseuds/evanlinge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's like a supernova tearing him apart from the inside out, rushing through and filling the space like it's going to push him out of his own skin. Then Michael is there, burning behind John's eyes, spreading him open and pressing up against his soul like the final bolt slotting into place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proximity Burns

 

* * *

 

John can hear the sounds of the fight going on in the run-down house, broken glass crunching underfoot, Sam's pained groan and Mary's sharp gasp, Dean snarling Sam's name; its all muffled, like he's hearing it from underwater.

His vision is blurring in and out of focus as he rises off the ground, but the sudden flash of blinding light and twist of sound is impossible to miss. The light, _the angel_ , he registers, is filling his senses with images that seem like memories, but John doesn't recall them. Doesn't remember fire blooming across Mary's skin, her form slashed open on the ceiling. Doesn't remember a child, _his_ child, standing on the lawn in his pyjamas with a baby in his arms and ash in his hair. He doesn't remember the _hunt_.

 

It only takes an instant, but it feels like an eternity until John can speak. He _knows_. His head pounds and his hands shake, so he straightens and stares directly into the archangel's searing aura.

“Yes,” He says. His voice is a ruin.

 

It's like a supernova going off under his skin and tearing him apart from the inside out, rushing through him and filling the space like it's going to push him out of his own body. His blood turns to acid in his veins, and for a moment he thinks he's suffocating, drowning in the most powerful archangel's grace. Then Michael is _there_ , burning behind John's eyes, spreading him open and pressing up against his soul like the final bolt slotting into place.

 _You were created for-_ John can't finish the thought over the roaring in his ears. Not in the privacy of his own head, and certainly not when he's sharing that head-space with an archangel.

Belatedly John senses his body moving towards the house, Michael walking with that smooth, otherworldly elegance that seems unique to him. Mary, sweet Mary who hasn't burned to death on the ceiling, watches in shocked horror as Michael destroys Anna and John can't tell whose thoughts are whose any more. He feels like he's floating, riding the border between pleasure and pain as Michael pours his power through John's hands, flicking the ash off his fingers. It's a strangely delicate gesture, and it looks oddly appealing on him.

The other angel, Uriel, is saying something, but the world slips away along with the second surge of power. John thinks that the term 'vessel' is fairly misleading. If he had to try and describe it, he might use words like 'conduit' and 'devastating'.

 

When the world swims back into focus, Dean is standing in the doorway, his expression a strange mix of fury and devastation. “Fix him,” he growls, gesturing with his good arm towards Sam's body. It says a lot, how Dean faces down the most powerful angel in existence, and orders him to fix the kid.

“First, we talk,” Michael asserts, “then, I fix your darling little Sammy.” The words come out with a tinge of mocking indulgence, Michael smoothing down the sounds in John's mouth, tone going soft and dangerous.

 

John's conscious mind rises slowly, curling around Michael's as he tries to make out Dean's words as he steps closer, but Michael thrusts him back down, firmly but gently. Their voices, Dean's and Michael's, wash over him but John doesn't register the words.

Michael steps forward into Dean's space, intimate and predatory, but Dean stays where he is. Their conversation takes a turn, and although he can't hear the words or Dean's response, he feels the rush of pride and pleasure it elicits in Michael.

 

Once Sam is gone, Michael reaches out to straighten Dean's jacket, an oddly affectionate movement. “I'll see you soon Dean,” he says, not unkindly. John's fingertips brush Dean's brow and as he vanishes, John feels Michael's grace sliding hot and flush against his mind. The world whites out again.

 

* * *

 

Mary looks radiant in blue, John decides. She's smiling at the baby's room, one hand smoothing circles over her round stomach like it's automatic.

“Where did you even get it?” He asks in bemusement.

“Garage sale,” Mary laughs, “twenty-five cents.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear that anyway,” John grins. “I mean, you really don't think its just, -just a little cheesy?”

“Hmm," Mary says as John curls a arm over her shoulder. “I think its sweet. Can't even put my finger on why I like it.” She pauses. “I just like it.”

 

John looks up at it, a kitschy figurine of a cherubic archangel Michael. “Well then I love it,” He smiles, only half-joking, as he pulls her into an embrace.

 

* * *

 

Dean Winchester is born January 24, 1979, healthy and surprisingly alert. He feels so tiny, cradled in the crook of John's arm, big blue-grey eyes already darkening to green as he peers out of his swaddle of baby blankets. When the nurse hands him the baby, Mary is half-delirious, clasping his free hand tightly.

 

“I don't want him to have to fight,” She moans lowly, thrashing. “I-I don't want him to have to fight, to hun-”

 

“Don't worry,” John soothes, “he won't. Mary please, calm down. He doesn't need to be a soldier, he doesn't have to fight.” Dean gurgles softly in his arms. “He won't need to fight.” John maintains, looking down at his baby boy's wide eyes. “He won't.”

 

Dean is all of four hours old, and John loves him more than anyone and anything else in the world.

 

* * *

 

Four weeks later, John wakes from a confusing mess of dreams, fire on the ceiling and Mary lying in the crib, cradling a yellow-eyed child in her arms. Dean with shining white eyes, tucked into John's arms, saying _“run,”_ with John's voice.

 

He slithers out of bed, glancing over at Dean and Mary sleeping quietly as he stumbles into the bathroom. The light above the sink is too-bright, throwing strange shadows onto the face in the mirror.

“I won't lose them. They're my family,” John says softly. The man, the soldier, in the mirror just watches him. “I won't lose them,” he asserts.

 

“ _John,_ ” The young man in the mirror says, looking up with Mary's green eyes, fire blossoming under his skin. “John, _run-_ ”

 

When John wakes, he doesn't remember his dreams.

 


End file.
